“Hey, man.”

That’s how it always begins. And then he will say, in return:

“Hey, man.”

And then one of us will say: “I’m tired.”

And the other will say: “I don’t feel like going out today.”

“Neither do I.”

That’s how it always begins -- with feet, minds, hearts dragging. That’s never how it ends.

“We’ll just go get some food.”

“Okay, just something quick. I’m really tired.”

“We’ve covered that already.”

“And I look like shit.”

“I noticed.”

“Shut up.” Playful punch to the arm.

Pull in to the parking lot. It is sushi night. Every night is sushi night.

Two women walk past. Probably college students. We try not to notice, but the smell of peach-scented moisturizer lingers in the air after them. It is too much for us. It sends us over the edge.

A smile creeps over his lips, color rises to his cheeks, his eyes begin to glitter mischievously.

“Is that your set or mine?” he asks.

“I thought we weren’t going to sarge tonight.”

“I know. But look at them. You’re Style. Fucking Style, man! What would the boys say if you just let them go like that?”

“Yeah, but you’re Mystery. You invented this shit. Let’s see your stuff. Let’s see if you still have it.”

They disappear into a Chinese restaurant.

“Oh well, they’re gone. Let’s go get some sushi.”

“This is even better. Now they’re not moving targets.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll do this quickly -- for you, fucker.”

“I’ll be there in a few, to wing you.”

One of us begins the slow, reluctant, weary trudge into the Chinese restaurant. He pretends as if he’s walking to the bathroom, then suddenly pivots as he starts to pass the table with the girls. Deep breath. Smile. Head turns back over shoulder. Now it is time -- time to toss a casual, offhand question their way, any of a number of you can read about in this book.

The women respond with middling interest. This is to be expected. It is part of the game.

The next part is to pretend to leave, but then, as an afterthought, make a small observation or comment or question. They take the bait. They always do. Now it is time to hook them -- with the personality we’ve carefully cultivated, with the illusions we’ve spent months refining, with any of a number of other techniques that also lie in these pages – our master plan, now your master plan.

Hooked. They are hooked. Not like fish but like new friends. This is the moment, this is what the game is all about. This is the high you get. When these two complete strangers who you’ve approached don’t want you to leave.

That’s when the other will come in from outside, feigning innocence. Accomplishment intro him before he reaches the table. They approve. He introduces himself, displaying that winning personality cobbled from thousands of approaches. We sit down with them at the table, but only for a moment, we explain. The time constraint is key. We use it liberally.

It seems we are having Chinese tonight. Our meals are not ours to determine. We must go with the flow, the flow of peach moisturizer or fall-leaves perfume or vanilla talcum powder or rose-petal conditioner. This is what we do. This is what we must do. We are not just men, we are venusian artists. It is our calling. These sweet-smelling creatures are bored. They need adventure. They need our sparkling personalities and pre-scripted value demonstrations and comfort-building routines and last-minute-resistance stories and dual-induction massages and secret-spot orgasm techniques. We need their feminine energy. It’s our gasoline.

No, we are not tired anymore. We are fully awake. Wide awake and in the game. This is life. This is living. This is what we were put on this earth for, making these two girls laugh. It is music from heaven. And learning to make that music is what this book is about.

We leave with phone numbers pressed into our palms.

At least, that’s what happened this time because it’s a true story. The most recent one. In the old days, we would have invited them out that night with us, or at least followed up and called them. But now we are too busy. Our lives are already full of intrigues. We make them complicated on purpose. We see how ridiculous we can get -- how far we can push the line of what is socially acceptable, sexually possible, romantically inconceivable. We enjoy the drama. We don’t always enjoy the consequences. But we survive them to live and love another day.

Our lives weren’t always like this. They were once free of consequences, free of drama, free of love, and free of women. But we weren’t free. We were a slave to our desire, to the knowledge that there were guys out there who had dates and girlfriends and fun. We didn’t. We watched them. We tried to figure out what they had and we didn’t.

People yearn to be creative. They think that this means they must go into acting, writing, visual art, or music. But there are other arts. Cooking can be an art. So can boxing. Mystery’s is social dynamics. He can play a room like Eric Clapton can play a guitar. Not like Jimi Hendrix, but like Eric Clapton – studied, precise, economical, effective.

When I learned this art, I studied at the feet of the masters. When Mystery learned it, he didn’t know about masters. He didn’t know there was an art. It was pure. He studied human behavior. For years. Until slowly he put it together. The charts. The diagrams. The algorithms. The technical terms. Every day, he wrapped his head around the puzzle of social interaction. Until he put together every piece. Elegantly. Neatly. Like Eric Clapton. And I don’t even listen to Eric Clapton anymore. I think he’s sometimes over-rated. Mystery’s not. Not yet. He will be one day, when pickup becomes the new workout and pumping emotions the new pumping iron.

Watching him work was the day my life changed, the day that I realized that the disease of loneliness had a cure.

That cure is the Mystery Method.

Welcome to your new lifestyle. Are you tired yet?

--Neil Strauss